Shattered Wig Press, publisher of The Shattered Wig Review and many fine books of poetry and prose, has been going down the rabbit hole of culture since 1988. We are based in Baltimore, Maryland, home of Poe, Billie Holiday, John Waters, David Simon, murder, pavement surrealism and liberationist absurdity.
We are always looking to publish the gritty, mischievous, magically absurd, brutally poignant or simply put miraculous communication.

Shattered Wig #28

Coming In November!

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Have you enough round hole flabby-strength to skate your eye lintLet's ask someone who knowsLet's ask patchy lint custard on your elbowAbout dog cough, mist halation, all that wisdom fulla smokeWhen I get to going I know it sounds silly and sordidPeople begin to predict I'll go to the chairA bunch of flying snails in the end is only wrinkly foldsThe way you lunge sets us to belching and the cloudsThroat combination screwy storms in my mask collectionSets something to sparkling in my lapI seem to see floppy shorts will name your lifeLook out for bombing phones you always followedWhen you place your trust in cheese then blocks of saltGlisten in your tub like lumpy ashcakesNo wonder a football bursts and stinksI'd haveto say I'm chargingyou with thatYou who made these letters act all screwy and thudLike apples behind the toiletThanks to you I smelled and stunned the coughing hatThat's what it means to foam beside the riverAnd find the birds stacked to north and southHave you enough round hole flabby-strength to munch on those buggersI bet you have

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Thanks to a Big Daddy Roth of a stomach virus - Rat Fink bulging eyes, colors not found in nature, everything ensconced in flame - last Sunday found me doing some serious couch riding, missing the love filled resonant acoustic show at Normal's with Sea Couch and Her Fantastic Cats.

One thing led to another, including viewing a filmic charmer named "The Black Death" that would make a great double feature with the original "Wicker Man" with its tale of a small pagan town living peacefully without the plague until Christian Crusaders invade and next thing I knew Kim Jong Ev had me watching The Grammy Awards for the first time since maybe High School when The Andrews Sisters were battling it out with Leslie Gore and Cee Lo Green was still nothing but a protoplasm being stirred up in an ice cave on some far away planet.

Either it was the absence of a stomach lining putting a drain on my brain or perhaps the cobwebs of age itself, but I was pleasantly surprised. Not by the winners since I didn't like any of the nominees (other than an appreciation for Arcade Fire, of course, although the singer is still sporting that Nazi Youth hairdo and naming an album after a concept - the suburbs -that is long dead and already dealt with handily by '80s New Wave), but by the entertainment.

Loved crazy Old Man Bob stretching his pretzel legs with the new kids on "Maggie's Farm". He got quite a bit of dramatic effect out of minimal movements and gesturing with his harmonica mic. His fifteen seconds of harmonica playing at the end though was a bit of a tease. And I want to enter whatever world Cee Lo Green is on. What the what! Muppets, '70s funk, Gwyneth and Big Bird and somehow it all works. Love that guy.

And fucking Mick Jagger. Always kind of put up with him so I could love the Rolling Stones great early music, but of course truly only loved Keith, but sweet Jesus, the guy is a stage natural. Where the hell is he coming off like that at his age???? I guess being filthy rich for four decades and being able to spend your whole life exercising, swimming on tropical islands, fornicating with models and eatng only the finest foods and drugs pays off.

It also always warms my heart to see soulful Kris Kristofferson on stage in all his raw warmth, even if it is just to introduce Dame Babs Streisand. Was it just me or were all the black superstars filmed during Babs sequence hating on her? Man, some real sour expressions.

Of course right off the bat at the beginning during the red carpet sequence there was Lady Gaga supposedly being carried in an egg and spoken of as if she was Christ carrying a cross. What, what is her mysterious attraction? A 21st Century female Liberace? Performance art that is so campy and put to robotic beats that even the masses can spoon it up? The thin extended pointy shoulder blade was a nice touch, but sweetest of all was picturing her under the giant hat as all the awards passed her by.

The band strikes up a tune analogous to entropy,the world turns and twists in Klimt-light,the beginning of a universe radiates itself out of existence,wisdom's penetralia deliver a wallop of spontaneous symmetry,innocence carries profound implications for the concept of putrefaction,Janus turns lazy and bitter,I perform a bad imitation of crueltyfor the faces in the back of the car just ahead.

Back of the forest lies groggy with sunshine,death looks for kindred moisture,logic emends the manuscriptuntil it falls off the edge of the world,rain feels like a dove to the heart,light predicts the future byrummaging through the universe's rotting body.How do I sleep? Because space-time is curved.

William Merricle lives in Lima, Ohio. He once was the assistant manager of a porn theater, and would open up the little window panel in his office and throw paper airplanes with quotes from Heidegger at the patrons below. His latest chapbook, "Heimlich the Donut," is available from Pudding House Publications.

With breasts stuffed with blackeyed peas and exhorting the crowd to "Smell my purse!!", Baltimore artist and gadfly, avatar of Robert E. Lee dog park, Linda Franklin celebrated the milestone of her 70th birthday taking a packed crowd in Minas on a trip through her eyeballs and heart and through time itself.

And just as the presence of the Elvis Impersonator was too powerful to glimpse clearly with modern technology, so too the image of Linda summoning the spirit of her long gone grandmother.

If you have ever met Linda you not only remember it, but you lose any belief in linear reality. Former writer of books on antiques and kitchen collectibles? Wood nymph of Robert E. Lee. Filmmaker. Folk art collector. Raw nerve open receptor of wonder 24/7.

It was a Boite: Show and Tell night hosted by the enigma known as Lauren Bender at the ever friendly and well curated Minas shop and gallery. Two of the showers on this night were Linda who was turning 70 and radio star Aaron Henkin. Linda celebrated her birthday by inhabiting the clothing and spirit of her grandmother, Grace, having Grace tell us about her own life at the age of 70. It was a moving and illuminating look at her family and at her childhood with Linda right there feeling it. After the show she was dj'ing at a party down the street where she promised the crowd "There will be funk". One day I hope to have a satori that fills me with half the energy that she contains. Truly she has supped at The Cup of Borgnine.

Dr. Henkin of The Mellifluous Pipes took us back to his early days in Baltimore when he and his pal Todd started up a heavy metal band called Destroyer 666, a name they found out was already taken by an Australian white power heavy metal band. The moment of truth came when Aaron unveiled the flying V electric guitar he purchased after Destroyer 666's first gig. Not only did it have devil horn's at the head, but it rested in a coffin shaped pleated purple cloth lined case. I for one was relieved that it wasn't the shrunken cold corpse of Andy Bienstock revealed when Aaron with a leering smile swung open the lid of the case.

Upcoming Mole Suit Choir Shows

Out Now From Fell Swoop!

Mattress In Alley, Raft Upon The Sea

$6 Postage Paid

Long Live Blaster Al Ackerman

Astrally Reassigned March 17, 2013

Raymond Chandler As Martian

The Origin of Paranoia As a Heated Mole Suit Going Into Third Printing

My mutant baby walks again! 52 pages. "I have read The Origin of Paranoia as a Heated Mole Suit by Rupert Wondolowski. It is as good as the title would mandate being to warrant having such a bad ass title on the cover. The poems here are amazing and weird and funny, and for $9 you can’t really ask for much more. Get this quick.." - Blake Butler, HTML Giant

$9 Postage Paid

Reviews

The Origin of Paranoia As a Heated Mole Suit - by Rupert Wondolowski
"HTML Giant Reviews Mole Suit!
My sparkling new baby has its first review, before the publication party even. My noose lays damp on my book covered bed and for that I hail Adam Robinson and Publishing Genius Press.
New from PGP: The Origin of Paranoia as a Heated Mole Suit
Posted by Blake Butler @ 2:28 am on December 16th, 2008 (Permalink)
I have read The Origin of Paranoia as a Heated Mole Suit by Rupert Wondolowski. It is as good as the title would mandate being to warrant having such a bad ass title on the cover. The poems here are amazing and weird and funny, and for $9 you can't really ask for much more. Get this quick." - Blake Butler/HTML Giant

Normal's Gold Plated Night At The Golden West

Nathan Bell, Michael Lambright & Justin Being Suave

Chris Toll Resonating At Wig 28 Party

Shattered Wig Review #28 Is Out!

After a two year love hiatus, Shattered Wig is back with an effulgent 66 page issue bursting with brilliant writing by folks like Stephanie Barber, Chris Toll, Amelia Gray, Michael Kimball, Adam Robinson, Blaster Al Ackerman and John Colburn and edgy "Slancys" by Professor Derrick Buisch. The full color cover by Rocco Randy George McWilliams Superfly III is worth the $6 price alone. Contact us here for a copy or buy one in person at Normal's Books & Records, Atomic Books or Minas. $12 will get you a two issue subscription shipped to your door.

"Don’t let the DIY look of the publication mislead you. Here, you’ll find sophisticated literature, with allusions to the visual poets, surrealist, automatic writing and stunning poetic lines like Stephanie Barber’s “one conducts electricity or symphonies, big bands or / trains or themselves with restraint.” There is plenty of worthwhile reading material in here all for only six dollars." - What Weekly

Shattered Wig Review #28 - $8 ppd

Shattered Wig Night Tinklers Publication Party

Chris Mason of the Tinklers

The Elements by The Tinklers

Available Now for $10.00 postage paid from Shattered Wig Press

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Corn & Smoke by Blaster Al Ackerman

Corn and Smoke: Stories, Performances, Things by Blaster Al Ackerman 88 Pages, perfect bound, $12 postage paid from: Shattered Wig Press 425 E. 31st St. Baltimore, Md. 21218 Al Ackerman is the Mark Twain of the 21st Century, with a strong dose of Phil Dickian time warp and a heavy reading of every sci-fi pulp of the 40s and 50s ever printed. Not to mention the wry wit of a Perelman. Ackerman is serious about language and presenting the myriad onion layers of the universe, but he chooses for his subject the margin dwellers, the avatars, all the while with great empathy for the lost souls of The New Age. This collection brings together some of his out of print classic stories like "What My Bible Did For Me" and "The Crab" with new brain teasers like "The John Eaton Recommendations" ("little gauzy winged things fascinated him") and "Ten Finger Earl".

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Baltimore Magazine Award

Best Literary Magazine 2009

Shattered Wig Review #27

This issue boasts front and back covers by Baltimore's recent MICA graduate who has gone super nova in the last year or so - Erin Womack. Seemingly possessed by Star Wars, Weird Old Ladies With Mysterious Crystals and Persian Folktales that don't exist, Erin's art has been popping up everywhere in multiple mediums - children's books, cassettes, DVDs, storefront windows, shirts, hand printed posters, paintings, drawings. Other young Baltimore upstarts included are the poets Lauren Bender, Justin "Wifehair" Sirois, Jamie Gaughan-Perez, M. Magnus (from Alexandria, VA, actually, but he sure spends a lot of time in Baltimore), Stephanie Barber and Adam Robinson. For us they write in the sweet stew of language that blends post-surrealism, eternal absurdity, pathos despite itself and echoes of the ever looming LANGUAGE. 27 is also chock full of most of the damaged geniuses you've grown to love or despise: Mok Hossfeld, Blaster Al Ackerman, John M. Bennett, Eerie Billy Haddock and Andrew Goldfarb. And I defy anyone to not love the poems of John Colburn. His "Human Being In Celestial Mode" is the one thing that gave me hope in the new year. All that plus feverish cartoons, collages and drawings.

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The Whispering of Ice Cubes by Rupert Wondolowski

52 pages perfect bound. Prose and poetry by the editor of The Shattered Wig Review. $8 postage paid. "Rupert Wondolowski's gritty work is macabre, mischievous, playful, and irreverent, approximating a fusion of William Kotzwinkle, Ron Padgett (circa Great Balls of Fire), Richard Brautigan, and Charles Bukowski. These 39 pieces are delivered with the power and polish of French surrealism, and yet they are particularly American in nature, informed by a sort of seamy-underside-of-society perspective, presumably influenced by Wondolowski's residence in Baltimore, Maryland, stomping ground of two other great American surrealists, John Waters and Edgar Allan Poe. This is not some dour, pretentious art-for-art's-sake surrealism, nor is it some tepid experimental workshop riffing, but rather the work of a highly accomplished and unique writer with a twisted sense of humor." - Mark Terrill in Rain Taxi

About Me

Author of The Origin of Paranoia As a Heated Mole Suit, The Whispering of Ice Cubes, Humans Go Outside to Hurt You, Shiny Pencils, The Incredible Sleeping Man and Nightmare Rubber. Editor of The Shattered Wig Review and Press.